Dissonance
by Dolorose-Lalonde
Summary: The 2P versions of the nations have, in one instantaneous moment, stolen their original's positions and statuses as nations and pitched the world into disorder. Some nations handle it differently from others, but none are happy with any of this. AU.
1. Chapter 1

What they didn't know, what they were a bit too foolish to ever fully realize; was that They have always been there. As voices in their heads and whispers in their ears; as drying ink on declarations of war and as the spilt blood of prostitutes in their alleys.

_After centuries (Millennia, even.) of building up in the conflicts and waged warfare nations had always so recklessly involved themselves in, everything shameful about their history that was carefully averted from conversation, had taken on a form. They were personifications of everything __wrong__ with a nation and their inevitably blood-clad past. The nation's personality, image, and being were twisted and warped into something terrifyingly unrecognizable. These entities, eloquently referring to themselves as "Player Two's", were __mockeries__ of their_ _nations, broken shards of a shattered mirror under their original selve's bare feet._

_They had taken over their original nation's positions violently and instantaneously. In one moment, every nation of the world…suddenly wasn't a nation, anymore. In one moment, they had felt themselves severing from their land and from their people. Their immortality, they didn't lose (It takes a bit more than that to be rid of such a curse.), but the very second they had acknowledged these "2P"s, they had physically felt their status as protectors, representatives, and heirs to the nations that were their identity flicker away like the sudden snuffing of a flame._

_What happened to the (now former) nations after this varied._

_Some were killed. Dead. Vanished, as if their eons-long existences never were and never would be._

_Some were almost killed, but with the help of another ex-nation, had escaped the fate of becoming Dead. These ex-nations were Dimmed._

_Others were Dissident, living in hiding. Some of them wanted their countries back, and caused revolt against this unplanned, unwanted regime wherever they could. Some just took to the skies or sea in hopes of living out the rest of their lives with some resemblance of peace._

_Others still were Daunted, forced or manipulated into an involuntary "alliance" with their 2P selves. Their 2P selves, for some unfathomable (possibly sadistic?) reason, had kept them around, and so these unlucky few had to watch as these imposters let their nations crumble and wither before their eyes._

_A particularly hardy minority were Defiant, outright killing their Player Two's. Though their nationship had been stripped, they'd been able to keep their countries relatively untouched. They lived in a sort of unstable peace, shutting themselves off from the rest of the corrupted world._

_Whatever their situation, what mattered was that the world was no longer theirs._

_This is the story of the ones that tried to take it back._

**A/N: Man, I really like coming up with AU's, and even though 2P is already a thing, I wanted to do some sort of post-apocalyptic world-domination thing with it?**

**By "took to the skies or the seas", I mean as in boats and airships and such. Yes, I'm going to partake in that sky-pirate stuff, ha ha.**

**There's…really not going to be any outright pairings in this? I mean, there may be, but it won't by any means be the focus.**


	2. Chapter 2

As Matthew Williams, you have woken up to a lot of things. These things varied from having a miniature, but rather heavy-weighted polar bear curled up on your chest…to having a hungover, naked albino man curled up on your chest. Over your low-keyed existence, you've gotten rather acquainted with the involuntarily-learnt art of waking up to strange things.

Yet, you've never before awakened to a vigorous, jaw-unhinging shake of your shoulders and a shout in your ear, _Are you still alive, bro?_

A lone violet eye opens blearily, a quiet, groggy voice asks, _Alfred? Alfred, what the hell kind of question is that?_

Your brother lets go of your shoulders to rest his palm on the wrinkled bedsheets beside you, to lean down and scrutinize your face, _You seriously don't know? Don't you know, the shit that just went down?_

You begin to sputter, ask indignantly what he's talking about and is this another one of your conspiracies and Alfred please it's too early in the morning to be such a hoser, when. When you _realize._

You feel a tugging at place where your heart should probably be, at the empty space that used to house your pride and history and everything Canada, now gone. You see the belated panic flickering sporadically over your brother's face, of the injuries inflicted on aforementioned face (_Good God, Alfred, your mouth, what happened to your mouth?)._

And just like that, you _know_. And Lord, do you know.

Alfred sees the stark surprise on your face, and nods grimly. _Yeah, so. Apparently, the entire world decided to become a totally shitty evil-clone movie. This has happened to all the other guys too, can't ya feel it?_, and yes, you can.

_My…_you scramble for a word to call this intruder, imposter that you haven't even met, yet you know what he wants and you know what he's done. _…Him. He's in me right now, right? I mean, my country._

_Yeah. Ha ha, I guess ya chose a great time to sleep over at my place, man. Avoided his villainy clutches like a fucking __ninja__, you did. _Alfred clears his throat, trying to lay off on the childish language, and you admit that it doesn't fit with the face that his lips are swollen and oozing strings of teeth and bloody spittle. _So, um. You passed out, as soon as, uh, It, happened. And meanwhile, in pops this America-impersonating asshole, slamming my face into a table and acting like an overall un-heroic dick._

Suddenly, you can audibly hear a scowl in his voice. _I don't know who he thought he was. No, wait, I __do__. He claimed to be the New America, to which I said bullshit, I'm the one and only America and I'm here to stay! …He ended up saying a lot of things that I'd really…rather not be hearing. _The scowl is more of a wince now, and you wonder what exactly this alternate of his had brought up to him. 1812? The Vietnam War? His independence, and what he had to do to earn it? Despite how many of the other nations deemed Alfred as childish, they knew full well that over his relatively short lifespan, he has racked up plenty of regrets. Brother's intuition tells you, however, that you shouldn't bring that up right now.

_And, so, you…?_, you prompt.

He chuckles sheepishly. _Well, see, about that. I…he hit a chord there. No, shit, actually, he hit so many chords he was practically banging a piano, no, he was practically banging the piano's __mom__-_

_Alfred._

_Huh? Oh, yeah. Um. _A cough, a shift to a less awkward position. _I kind of…__snapped__ on the guy. Not sayin' he didn't deserve it, the things he was bringing up, who the hell did he think he was? I couldn't hear that stuff, I can't even hear it in my own head. So. I killed him. _

…_Killed him._

_Don't look at me like that, do you realize the totally dog-shitty position we're in? Killing these dudes is probably the exact thing we need to do._

_Yes, I understand, but. _

_It was either that or he'd kill me! I know he would've. And, it's not like…I was trying to do it? I didn't even, like, shoot him or anything, I just yelled back. I don't remember what I said, exactly, but there was something I said that made him go all…fuzzy? And then he exploded? Is that the right word for it? I wouldn't call it that, really, but it's the closest word I can think of._

_Al, your mental dictionary isn't really-_

Your snark goes ignored, as he rambles and mutters on to himself; attention span ephemerally terrible as always. You'd usually get frustrated about this, but it comes to you that with spoken word, Alfred was able to kill this malicious alternate self that tried to use his own regrets against him. You realize, this could come in handy, and make a mental note of this.

Alfred stands up, makes an ungracious snorting sound as he wipes at cracked, scabbing lips. If he'd hadn't said whatever he said, in his blind rage, he'd have gotten off with much worse than a bleeding mouth. He stares out a window, with a strangely contemplative expression.

You sit up, raise your eyebrows at him.

_Al. The rest of the world is like this, we can tell, but we don't even know if the others managed to kill these…nation-clones like you did, for all we know, they could be dead themselves. My alternate is probably looking for me, either that or doing God-knows-what with my country. This isn't something…anyone was prepared for. Al, what're we going to do, eh?_

He turns around, grinning. There was something hard and set in his smile that you could only describe as America, even though he technically wasn't anymore.

Wha'dyou think we're going to do? We're going to be heroes.

A/N: This chapter's called "I Need To Stop Writing When I'm Half Asleep", alternatively, "Wow Writing Canada Is Really Hard".

**But, anyways. If you're confused, what happened was that Canada had been staying over at America's house for ~brotherly bonding~ the night the Incident happened, and had passed out; thus leaving America and 2P!America to a verbal duel that left America accidentally killing 2P!America with one spoken phrase.**

**Are you going to see how this verbal battle went? Are you going to know what sort of word works as the 2P's weakness? That's for you to find out and for me to have actually no idea what to do with myself, oops.**

**I'll have the next update by tomorrow, I think!**


	3. Chapter 3

A frantic figure of unruly hair and broad, manly shoulders stumbles and skids into your house. She's shouting into your parlor, _Po-Po! Hey, you there, you okay? __Hey!_

You blink, as if coming from a stupor. Which, you just have. Taurys is staring at his feet, where that person fell, then at you with your perplexed green eyes.

You turn around, wait, shit, did you seriously leave your front door open?

_Po, __Feliks__, you know we have a problem, right?,_ she asks as she rushes into your kitchen, tracking mud and grit all over your totally polished floor. (_Daaaaaammit._)

You snort, _No, duh, we have a problem. You're totally ruining my tiles there, 'Erzie._ You look again at Taurys, shaking with anger and shock with pride. _But yeah, I know. This is, like, something outta America's dumb Hollywood movies, I swear._

You lean against the linoleum counter, humming with displeasure. You were proud, proud of your history, of your people, you've been called Europe's fucking phoenix, for crying out loud.

But now, this swelling confidence in yourself and in your precious Republic of Poland has been taken away, just as easily as the pain you had to go through to earn it, and now, now you feel this tortuous empty feeling gnawing at your very bones. Like you don't know who you are anymore, which you _don't._

Erzebet, hair damp with sweat and clinging to her reddened face, pants, _I didn't have one of those things, though, I do not know why. Maybe I just got lucky?_

_Neither did I, _you murmur thickly, and stare at the twitching form on the floor. _Liet does, though._

_Me, and if our nation's intuition is right, everyone else in the world., _Taurys is wheezing, giving a bitter kick to the fallen alternate. His nervous gaze flickers between you and Erzebet. _What on earth is with you two?_

You shrug in synchronization. _Beats me_, you sigh.

Erzebet seems to notice Taurys's alternate for the first time, foaming at the mouth, off-coloured eyes rolled to the back of the head. _Wow, what did you do?_

_He totally told the poor bastard off, is what he did! _You hiss, your voice bursting with pride. A little grin tugs at the corners of Taurys's mouth.

…_Huh?_

_The guy, he kept trying to freak Liet out, saying some totally nasty things about his time with Russia and shit like that. Like, really uncalled for, and I think he was expecting for Liet to start crying or some junk, but instead Liet went off on him. _You frown thoughtfully. _Dude started shakin' and foaming at the mouth when Liet said…what'd you say, Liet?_

Taurys shrugs, pulling over a chair for Erzebet to sit in. _I deny you. I said other things too, about how the past was behind me, and how pathetic he is trying to get a rise out of me, but he started the whole foaming at the mouth bit when I said "I deny you", so I assume that's it._

You snap your fingers, and grin. _Yep, that's it! And now, we're gonna see if we can get any information outta this douche._

_Speaking of information, _Erzebet remarks, _I have some. But also, I have to ask you a favour. _

Your eyebrows raise, heavy-lidded eyes lifting just slightly.

_I need to stay at your place, Po-Po., _she says, _I might not have had to deal with these fake nation-guys, but…my capital's gone. My house, my Budapest is __gone__. I mean, I watched it disappear into nowhere, I don't even know how the hell- _She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.

I panicked. I needed to see if everyone was okay, so I ran to the nearest airport and started country-hopping like crazy.

_Ludwig and Gilbert are okay, _she continues_. They've also managed to incapacitate their alternates._

You and Taurys share a scoff, well, the Weillschmidt brothers, of course.

_I ran into Romania while I was in Berlin, he had evacuated his own country a bit ago. Flighty bastard. _She grits her teeth in instinctive loathing, making you chuckle.

_So_, you chirp, _everyone's okay, then? _

Her face darkens. _No._

_Italy's a goner, I think. I couldn't even get through the borders. _

_Damn, no, not Feli, _you murmur. _And what of your ex-husband, 'Erzie? The glasses-wearin' snobby guy is still, like, playing Chopin and being a dick and junk, as always. Right?_

You mentally berate myself as Erzebet visibly pales.

_Roderich…he is not dead, _she chokes, voice thick and laced with grief, _but he might as well be._

You somehow know better than to ask any more.

**A/N: **

**And yes, a few of the nations have been exempt from having an alternate self, but _no _one's been exempt from losing their status as countries.**

**So, yes, the 2Ps do gain their influence through emotional manipulation, and they can be defeated if you resist said manipulation. It's not as easy as it sounds, though. (Thousands of years of emotional chagrin leaves scars that can be _really_ hard to renounce on the spot, I imagine?)**

**Augh, I tend to use the more…unconventional spelling of the nation's human names, please bear with me on that?**

**Also, since Hungary calls Poland "Po-chan" in canon, I wanted to keep up the whole cutesy-ass nicknames theme!**


	4. Chapter 4

_Vash, Vash, Vashie_, you hear, _you can't ignore me, you know, you can't ignore yourself, you silly Swiss._

A thin streak of blue dances before your face, and you feel your heart swell with despair and hatred and grief as the silk brushes against your shuddering eyelid.

The You-that-isn't-you smiles and widens his eyes, blinding white blurring into sickening lime green as he sways the ribbon like a fishing line.

You force yourself to focus on glaring at this imposter, this murderous sugar-sweet bastard wearing your face, so you don't need to focus on the ribbon he's holding, nor do you need to think about who it previously belonged to.

_Why can't you be dead_, you think; and seeming to read your thoughts, like you know he probably can, and asks, _Are you mad at me?_, all frivolous nonchalance to contrast with your perpetual solemnity. _Do you need to shoot me again, would that make you feel better?_

_It wouldn't make me feel better, because you'd still be alive_, you bite out. But oh, how you want to shoot him again, like you have probably at least ten times. As you've seen, though, no matter how many bullets you put through his head-throat-eyes-heart, he'd just giggle and grin disarmingly as his body put itself back together; and you should have known that he wouldn't die, because nations didn't die by mortal means anyways, why would their supposed replacements?

Knowing this doesn't stop you, however, from wanting to straddle this double of yours and rip off his ears if only to hear the sound of his flesh severing and not the sound of him telling you that Liechtenstein was gone, the capital Vaduz has been reduced to unrecognizable rubble and the personification Lillian was in an even worse condition. The sick bastard had salvaged the blue hair-tie that you yourself had given her, picked it out from the broken pile of dust and torn fabric, from that misshapen mass that used to be her hand, and had presented it to you as a sort of gift. Saying_, I hate you, but I like you, I want to keep you around, you and your guns and your apathy, I want it._

At first you hadn't believed this-…he called himself "2P-Switzerland", whatever the hell that meant, when he claimed your sister and half the world was dead; but then suddenly you weren't Switzerland anymore, he was, and then you knew.

_She was the only person you really cared about, right? Besides your people, I mean. Her and them and that Roderich guy, but I know for a fact that he's gone too._

Roderich, Roderich, how the _hell_ did he know about Roderich?

_So anyways, you really don't have a choice._

He leans forward, uses the ribbon to tie your hair back in a ponytail, and you want to vomit. Preferably in his general direction.

_This really isn't something even you can stay neutral about, is it?_

You already know your answer to this. There really isn't any other answer you can give.

You nod, curtly, slowly, and he smiles that damned smile using your own damned mouth; and then you pull your fist back, and _punch._


	5. Chapter 5

_This_, Arthur sighs, sprawled out on his back atop the bobbing deck, _is utterly ridiculous._

You cross your arms behind your head and hum in agreement. _Utterly ridiculous, mon cher, and utterly tragic as well. But, there shall be no one to write of our tragedy, will there? If they keep up with all this. Unlike before, when we at least had biased history textbooks to remember our mortal comrades by._

_Yes. For the love of the Queen, yes._

It's been, you believe, roughly a month and a half since what you now refer to as the Great Invasion has started. You, Arthur, and perhaps seven other former nations (most of them being ex-colonies of yours), have gone into hiding on a relatively small ship of Arthur's, the Bleeding Frog, a name which you know was fully meant to insult you.

You and the others been busy, Arthur's made sure of it. Basically, you have been sailing around and causing trouble for the people who apparently called themselves "Player Two's", in the form of stopping by the coast of a ruined country, and helping as many people as possible out of the chaos your alternates have created. Reverse-piracy, Arthur called it, to which several scoffed. Peter was annoyingly enthusiastic about the whole business; he seems to have gotten a heightened sense of importance and from what you observe, apparently thinks himself a regular little Robin Hood, the little fool.

You no longer hold any obligation to your countries, but you help your citizens and other country's citizens partly out of habitual concern, and partly because you can't seem to think of anything else to do.

Partly, because you know Arthur needs to busy his hands and his mind, or he'll surely go mad.

You've been mainly sailing in the vicinity of Europe, though you did pick up Seychelles (No, not Seychelles anymore, _Angelique_.) on her little island, stopping to gawk at the facedown body she left floating in the waves, and the triumphant smirk on her face, _It took you guys long enough, non?_

You know not of the fate of most of Asia, or the Americas. Whenever you have tried to breach this subject with Arthur, he'd simply scowl and tersely bite out, _We'll discuss that later._

Against your better judgment, you breach the subject again.

_Anglettere_, you drawl, _I know you're worried about your Alfred. Just like I'm worried about Matthieu. _

_Of course I'm worried, you old lout. _He mutters tiredly, and in the dark you can vaguely make out a head covered in a messy mop of hair lolling to the side.

You hoist yourself up on your elbows, facing him; even though in the nearly moonless night and lack of a lantern, proper eye contact is out of the question. _Then, why don't we try to venture across the Atlantic Ocean? Perhaps we will be less worried if we see them for ourselves._

A moment of silence. _You know it doesn't work that way, you malefactor. _He finally says gruffly.

You cluck your tongue and chuckle. _Ah, I see. You're worried of what you might see. You're worried that they might already be gone and Dead that you could have saved them while you were busy rounding up this ragtag crew of yours,, oui?_

Another moment of silence, a more uncomfortable one; and you can barely see his hands moving to his face.

…_Arthur, _You sigh irritably, _People we've run into have all been saying the same thing. They say he's fine, that Matthieu's fine, and that the two have been trying to help the South Americans in some kind of heroism stunt. They aren't Dead, and paying them a visit will surely not do us any harm._

_Unreliable, _he mutters, _I do not trust what your damned word of mouth claims, it's all a game of Telephone, and for all I know he could've been gone since day one. And seeing that for myself, I won't be able to bloody handle that on top of all __this__, and I doubt you would either._

_Of all the people that you think would survive this sort of global comeuppance, do you not think it would be those two? Angleterre, you must know by now, I am not an optimistic person, but even I am sure that what they've been saying is true._

The scowl on his face is palpable, and you cannot even see it.

_You need to trust them, you continue. You must trust that they were capable enough to come out of it alright. After all, they were raised by none other than us._

Silence, once more, but you can tell that it is one of honest contemplation rather than a suppressed need to cry, or throttle your neck. Finally, he speaks. _Alright, fine. We leave tomorrow._

And then he adds, _I hate it, when you're right. I hate you, when you're right._

You lean over his face, and you feel your mouth ghost the surface of his forehead, and you can tell the luxurious tangles of your hair is tickling his nose and down-turned lips. When he growls and swats you away with a calloused knuckle to the cheek, you simply smirk and lay back down; closing your eyes.

_Then, mon musaraigne peu, you must hate me all the time._

You lay there a little longer, listening to the rolling waves, and when you open your eyes again, Arthur is gone.

**A/N:**

**Oops, my ships are showing.**

**So, yes, Arthur's made his own little "pirate crew", meanwhile Alfred and Matthew have been trying to assist their southern neighbors.**

**Also, mon musaraigne peu, I believe, means "my little shrew"? Correct me if I'm wrong.**


	6. Chapter 6

She hasn't spoken two words to you in weeks.

No matter how much you bothered her, no matter how much you flirted with her or tried to grope her or made some conversational attempt at being charming, she wouldn't spit out much more than a quiet murmur, and it made you sick to your stomach.

Mei Wang wasn't a quiet person. She was energetic, kept up a relatively cheerful demeanor despite her tendency to worry herself to pieces. But if there was one thing that could shut up his sister, the former Republic of Taiwan; it was losing the people that she cared about.

Kiku was someone she had always looked up to. Hated, sometimes, but always looked up to. To hear that he was being maliciously manipulated into an alliance with his alternate was devastating knowledge in itself, but it wasn't just the mere knowledge that affected her.

She was the one to find out first. She was the one to call him, repeatedly and fervently until the call button on her cell phone was tapped to ruin; only to hear a voice that was an exact copy of Kiku's. Upbeat, sickly-sweet inflections that sounded downright ridiculous with Kiku's gentle lilt had told her that her brother was unavailable to everyone at the moment and it's best she fucked off, in a drastically rude manner that the man she knew would _never_ have used.

Hong Kong was dead. She couldn't even find him, and she was none too eager to see every inch of his landmass in desolate ruin. Nor did she want to see the carbon copy that murdered him. Every time he was brought up, Mei and Yao's eyes would become identical twins, water-clouded circles of amber. You had been good friends with him as well, teased him with almost as much reckless abandon as you had with Yao. Your offhand mentions of him brought a strange hitch of guilt in your throat, and you'd long since learnt how to catch yourself.

You have to give credit to Yao, though, trying to console Mei whilst being in a good amount of turmoil himself. The fact that he _raised_ both Kiku and Hong is just as devastating as the fact that Mei had _loved_ both of them.

That, and trying to keep everyone together. You had been staying on what was probably a decent-sized ship, but not nearly large enough to house eight tired, nervous ex-nations who desperately want alone time by this point, considering the close quarters you've been living in the past couple of months.

It's commendable, though. The way Yao managed to round up all the Asians that weren't dead or corrupted, and get them all together without being found out. The way he breaks up the inevitable squabbles over things that none of you even _care_ about anymore. The way that he thought up the idea of steering you over to Australia and New Zealand to pick the both of them up. Not out of any personal liking for them, but out of compassion, which at this particular oh-shit-everyone-save-yourselves moment, was quite admirable.

You could tell that the presented opportunity to freely boss everyone around again exhilarated him in a way, but the circumstances this opportunity brought as well as the loss of the two people you _know_ he cherished most (The two people you were _insanely_ jealous of by default.)

You shared a cabin (If a bullshit closet-space that barely reached two yards could be called this), with Yao and Mei; and the sound of muted sniffling and choked-out sobs from the both of them, while it was nice that they tried to quiet them; had sickened you to your stomach to the point that you've taken to wearing headphones in your sleep. (You've found that the blaring sounds of crooning K-pop singers very nicely drowned out the sounds of…the emotional turmoil of your closest friends. Fuck.)

Sometimes, Lan would come by and you'd hear the soft hum of conversation, the low melody of Lan's comforting words quieting Mei's nigh-hysterical strings of words; and you turn your face to the salt-peppered ground and think, _Damn, I wish I can talk to Yao-hyung like that, _but you don't, and the next day, you pester the ranking piss out of him, cop a feel or two, but you never ask him if he's up for talking about his feelings, or about all the shit that's gone down, recently; or tell him how uncomfortable it is for you to say things like _-which was invented in __Korea__, of course, _even though you say to hell with this alternate-self stuff, you are and will _always_ be Korea! (People say that this sort of optimistic mindset will get you in a world of trouble one day, but how much more "in a world of trouble" can you _get_ right now?)

You laugh at Yao, and annoy him until he's physically agitated, and while you tell yourself that he needs to lighten up a little, the nuisance you're being (always have been) is just as obvious to you as to anyone else.

It's almost as sickening as the look on his face when the name "Kiku Honda" tumbles from your lips.

A/N: "Lan" is my headcanon human name for Vietnam, and "Mei", along with a good portion of the fandom, is my headcanon name for Vietnam.

So, the nations people currently on England's ship are: England, France, Seychelles, Belgium and Netherlands, Sealand, Norway and Iceland, and N. Ireland (Wales, Scotland, and Ireland are MIA)

The nations currently on China's ship are: China, Taiwan, Korea, Vietnam, Macao, India, Thailand, Australia, and New Zealand


	7. Chapter 7

You and Lovino, you two alone, had managed to snag a creaky, decrepit boat; barely enough to fit the both of you, and are currently sailing the seas of Whatever the Hell; simply wanting to go Anywhere But Home. Home is Spain, Home was Spain, and Spain was you, but in one gut-wrenching moment, Home and Spain and You has become the Holy Trinity of Not-Anymore.

And so you flee.

Before your alternate even has a chance to open his grotesque, gold-teethed mouth, you turn tail and run, just run, and you take Lovino with you.

One night, when the stars seem to be smiling upon the ruined world, you find him praying.

He's perched on the dingy, algae-slick wood of the deck, his legs poking through the rusted metal railing and dangling over the boat's edge. His body's hunched in on itself, looking for all intents and purposes like a round, curled bug.

As you approach Lovino, you can make out the words he's saying, the Latin he's reciting with a tone bordering on desperate. The Our Father, and you notice how his tongue stumbles haltingly on deliver us from evil, like it's working its way around a sob.

Even as you crouch next to him, even as you can feel the heat of his sunburned thighs; he stares ahead at the glittering horizon, like you aren't even there; and continues the prayer in a bastardized mixture of Italian and English and mangled Spanish. His voice is hushed and fervent and wrought with the trembling inflections of someone about to scream. It's then that you figure out who he's praying for.

_Feleciano?_, you whisper.

Lovino blinks, his prayer cutting off in the middle of a word. Glancing sideways at you with suspicion, he nods.

You smile. _Si, I know you're scared for him too, so am I—_

_No_. The word comes out harsh and biting and like bile from his mouth. _Fucking no. You don't, you don't know how I feel right now. You and your collecting of "lackeys" like goddamn butterflies on the wall. I'm so fucking worried, I can't…even sense him, anymore. He could be dead; he's my brother, my goddamn fratello, and he could be dead. And I've never done a single thing for him._

_Look at the crazy burger-chomping bastard, Antonio. Look at the crazy Swiss bastard, the crazy Russian bastard. What do they all have in common, besides being crazy? _He's obviously not waiting for an answer, because he continues_, They actually have the damn capacity to protect their stupid little siblings. I don't think I've ever seen Feleciano as anything more than a nuisance, and I just-…_He trails off, running a fingertip over a patch of red-brown rust._ -…I'm sorry, for it._

He goes on.

_I've been a shitty brother._

_Felieciano was murdered._

_I'm not important anymore._

_I don't think I ever was._

_And we have to do something, I think that if we all don't just grow some balls and do something...I think we're all going to die._

And so, you turn to him. Not to comfort, not to reassure. To confirm the truth as you know it. _Si, I cannot deny any of this._, and before he can shout at you, you steer his head to the side to rest on your shoulder; which would have worked better if he was still a child and shorter than you. His voice is lost around an unspoken word; in a choked, bird-like sound.

You listen to the sea-birds cry for one unbroken moment, and he says, _And you, Antonio. You're going to have to face that bastard sooner or later_; and neither of you need to say who he's talking about. If you're going to spit the acid truth in his face with a smile on your lips, you can trust that he'll be doing the same.

_That is true, this is all true, we have to do something. But, Lovi, are the stars not beautiful tonight?_

You smile, serenely, and throw Lovino's Bible into the sea.

**A/N: Who loves making Spain a dick? I love making Spain a dick.**


End file.
